


Only the Pack Survives

by midnightblack07



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Gen Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-11
Updated: 2011-10-11
Packaged: 2017-10-24 12:26:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/263454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightblack07/pseuds/midnightblack07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Arya wants to tear at her sister’s hair until it lays in the long, loose waves she used to sport at Winterfell, to put her in a darker dress, made of thicker material; <i>warm enough for the winter..."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Only the Pack Survives

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: 1x05 "The Wolf and the Lion"

~*~

  


_“You can fall if you want to, it’s just a matter of how far;  
You’ve treasured our home town, but you’ve forgotten where you are  
And it will stay with you until your mind’s been found,  
And it has been found wondering around...”_  
Wish I Stayed - Ellie Goulding

  


~*~

Arya can feel their eyes on her, can imagine the way their features are arranged—etched as always with disapproval and reproach. She supposes she should care, should stop picking at her food so vigorously and either eat or ask to be excused. But she doesn’t.

 _Not today._

She’s got bigger things on her mind, things that make Septa and Sansa’s disapproval seem even less significant than it’s ever been.  


 _The lion and the wolf will be at each other’s throats..._   


She is a wolf, and so is her father, and her brothers—and even Sansa (though you could hardly tell). And the only lions she knows of are the Lannisters, golden haired and colder than the snow she can so vividly remember crushing under her feet at Winterfell.  


 _If one Hand can die, why not the other?_   


Her father is _the other_ , she _knows_ it, and the very thought of those men plotting against him in that dungeon lined with the remains of those monsters makes her stomach turn, her heart flutter with a dreaded anticipation...  


“Arya, child, you’ve barely eaten,” Septa remarks, a gentleness in her voice that is often reserved for Sansa and only Sansa.  


“I’m not really all that hungry, may I be excused?”  


She’s polite as can be, for she learned the hard way that anything else would end in lectures from mother and lost privileges (the mere _thought_ of having her lessons with Syrio taken away...).  


“Your lord father doesn’t want either of you wandering about, if you’re planning on nicking food from the kitchens later tonight, I suggest—“  


“I’m not.”  


She realizes her mistake the instant she sees Septa’s lips purse and her eyes harden, visible signs of her displeasure at being cut off mid-sentence.  


“I mean I won’t, I promise,” her words laced with all the courtesy and sincerity she could muster. “I’m just _really_ not hungry. Like, at all.”  


“Are you having your dinners with your dancing master now before you come back to us,” Sansa accuses, Syrio’s title practically spit like a vile taste out her mouth.  


“No, but maybe I’ll start. I’d rather eat with him than you!”  


Her sister’s eyes widen and, if she didn’t know any better, she would have sworn there was a flicker of something not unlike hurt flashing ever so briefly across their sea blue surface. It’s gone before Arya can really place it though, replaced instead by a glinting hardness and a purse to her lips that out did even Septa.  


“I’m not exactly thrilled about having to eat with you either,” Sansa bites back, voice so low and not unlike the Queen’s that Arya nearly flinches.  


“Girls, that’s enough,” Septa cuts in, stern as ever. “Another word out of either of you and your lord father will hear of this. Arya, you may be excused.”  


She doesn’t bother to thank Septa, doesn’t bother to keep her chair from scraping against the stone floor or her cutlery from clanging against the plate the way a lady would. She’ll leave all the stifling courtesies for Sansa.  


 _Sansa..._   


_You mustn’t hate your sister..._ her father had told her. And she doesn’t _hate_ her, _not really_ (she doesn’t think).  


 _“When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives...”_   


Her father had also said, and it’s then that she feels a chill in her bones so similar to the one she felt in that dungeon with the dead dragons and those dubious men that she freezes.  


She is a wolf, and so is her father, and her brothers—and even Sansa (though you could hardly tell).  
 _We’ve come to a dangerous place._  


~*~

  


She can tell from the look on her sister’s face that she’s the last person Sansa would have expected to see propped on her bed, hands clasped before her and lips downturned in what could pass for a frown.  


“What is it?” Sansa asks, as cautiously as a girl tiptoeing unchartered grounds would.  


“We need to talk.”  


“Then talk.”  


She doesn’t let the impatience that saturates her sister’s voice deter her (although a part of her wants nothing more than to leave Sansa in the dark, to see the look on her face when her dear Prince’s true colors shine brighter than ever...).  


“I’ve been hearing things, people who want to hurt father—conspiring against him, talking about killing him the way they did the last Hand...”  


She blurts it all out, a string of words barely coherent even to her own ears. But she _needs_ her sister to understand, needs someone (anyone) besides herself to take what she heard as seriously as she’s certain it truly is.  


“Arya what’re you blabbering on about, you shouldn’t be making up such stories!”  


Nevertheless, Sansa’s face is paler than it has been moments before, a delicate hand over her heart and mouth slightly agape.  


 _Good._   


“I’m not making it up,” she snaps. “I heard them! There were two of them, one of them was fat and hidden, they were down in the dungeons with the dragon skulls because they didn’t want anyone else to hear them—“  


“That’s enough,” Sansa nearly shrieks, the color returned to her cheeks and her hands balled into fists at her side.  


She looks at her sister, _really_ looks at her, and hates what she sees. Sansa’s hair is arranged in some ridiculously elaborate twist atop her head--the mirror image of the Queen’s--and her silky dress is a delicate pale pink shade. You wouldn’t know that she was really a Northern girl unless you asked (and even then...). Arya wants to tear at her sister’s hair until it lays in the long, loose waves she used to sport at Winterfell, to put her in a darker dress, made of thicker material; _warm enough for the winter..._  


“Look, you’ve got nothing to be afraid of,” Sansa assures her, voice and demeanour much more level than they had been moments before. “Joffery and the Queen won’t let anything happen to me or anyone I love, you and father are safe—“  


“They said the lion and the wolf would be at each other’s throats.”  


She says the words before she weighs them, is surprised at how abruptly they surfaced and what she intends them to mean. The look on Sansa’s face tells her she’s not the only one.  


“If you think you’re going to spoil everything with your silly stories the way you did before—“  
“They’re not—“  


“Shut up, shut up!” Sansa’s shrieking again, her hands over her ears as if the silly motion could keep Arya’s words (the truth) from sinking in.  


“And get out of my room so I can go to bed!”  


Arya leaves, but not before chucking an empty cup at her sister and earning another indignant shriek.  


As she walks back to her room, her thoughts are clouded with her father who shook off her words of warning and the lions who have her sister in their back pockets.  


She wonders what the winter will make of their pack.  


~*~


End file.
